


Hardboiled

by trashbat



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Diners, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rare Characters, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashbat/pseuds/trashbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detectives Joe Bourquin and Steve Fine in the weeks before the squid hits New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**October 12th, 1985**

It all happened under the boundless, non-judgmental sky.

Detectives Steve Fine and Joe Bourquin stood safe and sound, only a few feet away from the corpse rotting on the threshold of an office complex. The woman's head was split open on the sidewalk, her memories soaking into the pavement, continually disturbed from their final desperate hallucinations and buried fantasies by twirling police and ambulance sirens. Joe glanced upwards, thick eyebrows raised as he noticed that it was looking like a beautiful fall day.

"Nice way to break up the morning," he muttered and lowered himself on the ground with a huff; one knee dug into the concrete to support his weight. The detective removed a steno notepad and pen from his coat pocket and scribbled down rudimentary observations of her position and physical appearance. The victim was yet to be identified, but from what he could decipher she was in her mid-to-late forties, and likely working overtime... Time of death late into the night after she'd left work. Fatal gunshot to the forehead. Was she taken by surprise, or did she have to beg for her life? Joe touched her gnarled hand with the tip of his pen. The rigor mortis had settled in her fingers to create a beckoning, witch-like gesture. Steve stood above him and went through the motions of lighting his next cigarette, the picture of grace despite the vehemence of his addiction.

"Third corporate gal this week. Either somebody's really got it in for today's modern woman, or anyone walking 'round in a Calvin Klein pantsuit is targeted for a pretty goddamn brutal mugging," Steve exhaled and watched as the smoke billowed above his partner. For a moment he considered using the domic bald spot on Bourquin's head as a convenient ashtray.

The older man itched his head idly, as if reading Steve's thoughts. "Calvin Klein?" Joe added the unfamiliar name to his notes.

"Jesus, Joe. Get _with_ it."

Joe shrugged, indifferent. "So, rhetorical shit aside, whaddya think? Do we need to get a hold of NOW an' tell them about a misogynist serial killer or what?"

"I don't know, man. I can't even think this early. I need caffeine, like, injected into my ass."

Joe heaved himself off the ground. "How about breakfast? These jackoffs are already getting antsy about scraping this poor lady off the street so's nobody else gets nightmares," he said, gesturing to the paramedics and cleaners hovering in the vicinity, all holding styrofoam cups of coffee that were never offered to the detectives. Steve ground the cigarette butt into the sidewalk and nodded.

Always the one more capable of authentic pity, Joe cast a glance back at the nameless corpse as they ducked under the police tape.

The closest place to eat turned out to be warmed-over 1950's diner imitation franchise. A cathedral to a past often yearned for, a _simpler_ time. Nothing was ever simple in the city. Joe and Steve approached the building; any apprehensiveness of unwelcome nostalgia returning from an unpleasant youth wasn't mentioned. Childhood or any semblance of a past just wasn't brought up, despite six years of candid conversation.

Steve held the glass door open for Joe in an act of chivalrous mockery. Joe moved forward without comment and picked out a booth by the window.

Their server was one of those burnt-out caricatures of a diner waitress, wheeled out for the entertainment of the patrons. _Holly_ was embroidered in the pink lapel of her uniform. "Coming out for the Early Bird Special?" No response. Holly's forced perkiness didn't wilt. "What can I get you boys?"

The detectives ordered unenthusiastically: two bacon and egg breakfast platters with a pot of coffee for the table. Once she left, Steve turned to his partner. He had a peculiar way of scowling and shifting his eyes before he began to speak, the jagged bottom row of his dimly yellow teeth jut forward in an unintentional pout. "You sure know how to pick 'em."

Joe nodded his thanks when the coffee was served. "How was I s'posed to know? This place used to be a family-owned bakery."

The upholstery squeaked as Steve shifted, clinging onto his next cigarette as if it were a life buoy. Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers' "I'm Not A Juvenile Delinquent" started to play on the jukebox. Under the table, Joe used his booted foot to nudge once at his partner like an anxious child. Steve took the brown paper bag he used to collect a few items from the scene and emptied its contents on the counter. Plastic baggies protected the integrity of four feminine belongings: a wallet thinly padded with several bills (no ID), a modest watch with a leather strap, pieces of a shattered pocket-mirror, and the small red handbag all of the belongings were found in.

"What's the motive?" Joe asked, shifting the bags around as if it made any difference. "If it ain't theft it's personal. Could have been the result of an unhappy love affair, or the guy was pissed that she got the promotion instead of him. Could have been that Jane Doe gave the guy who fills the watercooler the wrong look and now he's out for revenge."

"Not necessarily a _he_ , yaknow. A woman is just as capable of murder. Like a bitter coworker. Especially these overachieving corporate types. You wouldn't even have to chip a nail to shoot your colleague between the eyes," Steve held his partner in a pointed gaze, a smile threatening to break his default grimace.

Joe winced as he realized his coffee was still too hot to properly drink. "Maybe the victims were bad tippers and happened to catch Holly on a bad day."

Steve's will finally cracked and he let out a chuckle that vibrated through his wiry frame, flicking ash into the ceramic ashtray painted to look like a vinyl record. Holly emerged with their breakfasts balanced on one arm and stared pointedly at the bags cluttering the aluminum tabletop. Steve exhumed a cloud of smoke and rescued the evidence, sweeping it off the table and back into the grocery bag.

"So, now we're sitting on our hands... And when we're not sitting on our hands we're sifting through shit. We'll probably find another dead girl tomorrow," Joe speared a shriveled strip of bacon on his fork, consuming it rapidly even when he noticed it was the same sanguine as the businesswoman's shredded brain when they watched an officer lift her head to photograph the damage. Meat in general often brought up this sort of carnage in the detective's mind, though it was usually the veins in steak that got to him the most. No way was he becoming a vegetarian, though.

Over the years Joe'd become desensitized to seeing corpses on a daily basis. Usually the stuff that disturbed him the most, even more than the grisliest murders, were the things that people dealt with everyday. The mundane. He'd been trained to distinguish the greatest complexities in the smallest details. Nothing could ever be as quaint as it seemed. An instance in particular when Joe got the fantods from something innocuous was in July when they were investigating a kiddie-murder. The main suspect was an Italian immigrant who sold balloons in Central Park. When the detectives approached him he let go of a cluster of balloons in self-incriminating terror. Joe momentarily forgot the investigation and instead watched the silent, bright balloons climb the sky, feeling inexplicable dread weigh down on his stocky form.

"I can't even think with those dinosaurs up there staring at me," Steve spoke around a mouthful of overcooked eggs, glancing up towards the wall to indicate what the hell he was talking about. The iconic group photograph of the Minutemen hung faded and illegibly autographed in a frame above their heads.

Joe studied the picture as he absently shoveled food in. After a few minutes he spoke. "Damn, they were corny. But, ah," he fiddled with his napkin. "That Sally Jupiter wasn't so bad to look at, huh?" Joe's voice took on the slightly impertinent gruffness he used when trying to communicate with convicts. Steve found this odd and paused mid-bite. Joe'd been the closest thing to a friend he'd had in a while, but he still recalled the framework of a typical conversation between two heterosexual males. Joe and Steve were anything but typical, and they never talked about women. Even when they went into the chance strip club or cathouse to investigate, their discourses somehow always evaded sex. The question was weird coming from Joe, who seemed uncomfortable in this strained lechery.

"Sure. If you're into dinosaurs," Detective Fine scoffed.

After breakfast, Joe numbly maneuvered the unmarked '81 Plymouth Volare sedan through traffic while his partner stared out the window and smoked broodingly. Between them, the police radio chirped a litany of crimes and locations. Something about an old stacked guy who'd launched out of his apartment window piqued Joe's interest particularly; Steve showed no indication that he was even paying attention.

They arrived at their precinct only to be intercepted by Sergeant Harper, who always managed to be covered in a sheen of sweat despite it barely being eight o'clock in the morning. "Morning, boys. Just got word that you need to be in the Upper East Side, pronto. More concrete-gore for you this morning. Seems a Mr. Edward Blake took a nasty fall from his high-rise apartment last night."

Joe spoke first, "We're working the-"

"Right after you left we found a guy tied to the mailbox, beaten within an inch of his life. Confessed to everything, we didn't even mention the three separate cases found outside the office complex and he said he did it all."

"You mean he-"

Harper had no qualms interrupting Detective Bourquin. "It seems the dog left us a treat. Pretty cute, considering he left him alive this time."

"That means jack-shit," Steve finally interjected, snarling. "I need to see the suspect now."

"He's in a holding cell, Fine, he's not going anywhere. Right now the Blake case is more pressing."

Steve's expression was unreadable, but the way he walked out of the building with his trench coat flapping and scattering threatening shadows around his gaunt figure, this meant he was pretty pissed. Joe attempted to shrug it off. _It_ being the sucker-punch of having Rorschach do your job for you, and do it in the most adamantly primitive way possible that it's almost like he was telling you the answer was right under your nose the whole time.

"S'not like we were getting anywhere, anyways," Joe, later. The tires squealed as he pulled up to Blake's ritzy apartment complex. "I'm just glad the sick bastard is off the streets."

"Right, well. Here goes nothing," Steve replied passively. They climbed out of the sedan wearing stoic expressions. Something yellow and misplaced among the grime appeared in Joe's peripheral, but he lost sight and memory of it a moment later. They held out their badges to anyone who got in their way and took the elevator to the victim's floor. Bourquin all the while thought of balloons and wondered if Blake felt like he was floating before he hit the ground. Even for a second.


	2. Chapter 2

**October 17th, 1985**

Fluorescent lights are cheap and efficient. They lit the joint office and cast stark reflections off the window into the cloudy, starless night. Steve was seated, holding a battered copy of _Under the Hood_ open in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. The book was found in Blake's apartment, wedged impressively deep in the bookshelf. It looked like the most thumbed-through out of his library, save for the extensive collection of Playboy magazines which were proudly displayed next to antiquarian editions of Tolstoy's work. Steve had to admit; the guy had class.

It was these all-nighters when the partners became so involved in a case they couldn't go home without fear of getting off-track, when their conversations dwindled to taut stretches of silence. It was strangely intimate to be stuck with someone in the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, and to continue on like normal in the daytime without mention of the things they accidentally found out about each other. Things that spoiled their individually perpetuated image of the coolheaded, impersonal detective. Like Joe's nervous eating habits, or Steve's frequent trips to the restroom due to an overactive bladder issue he'd coped with since adolescence.

Detective Fine looked out the window and focused on the mirror-image of his partner.

Joe craned his head up and down, mentally locating whatever he needed around the steel filing cabinets with low, bristly murmuring. He spotted the item finally, crouched down to shift the cardboard box of paperwork off the ground and into his arms. He stood still, caught up in his thoughts as he heaved the box against his stomach, unaware of how hard he was breathing. When Bourquin realized he was being watched, he dropped it on his desk and coughed uncomfortably. The blonde man then averted his gaze to the carpet below. Cascading surgical pink and gray stains danced in front of his sleep-deprived eyes.

Joe was humming. Short-winded, but between the pauses Steve could hear the man could actually carry a tune. Their eyes met across the room, and Steve couldn't understand why his chest ached _heart attack?_ , or the sudden attachment he felt to Bourquin _desperate to be around anyone who can stand me_ , or why Joe's humming made him completely lose his trail of thought.

"What's that?" Steve spoke the first words uttered between them since their rushed midnight meal at a Gunga Diner. Steve checked his wristwatch; it was 3:55 AM.

"'The Big Hurt'. Scott Walker's version. Be back in a sec," He abruptly turned an about-face to the door and left. Steve could hear Joe singing in the hallway, something he'd never do with anyone else around. "Now it begins, day after day; This is my life, ticking away..."

A few minutes later he ambled in silently with another cup of java and a stale donut. Steve noticed it was his fifth of the hour, snatched from the breakroom where somebody left them that morning. Steve stood and observed his partner from an arm's length, casually leaning in the empty doorframe. The sudden urge to gibe at Joe was unbearable. It was like insulting the pretty girl in class just to get her to look at you.

"What?" Joe refused to panic under Steve's shrewd gaze.

"Joe, you gotta find stuff that’s funner than food. I mean, why don’t you go walking some time. Like, just to walk, ya'know?” Steve continued without forethought. It suddenly seemed imperative that he bring Joe to some sort of breaking point, unsure if it was for pure amusement or his own sick way of getting closer to the only person that mattered in his life. "Seriously, man! Don't you ever worry about your health? And what about women? Who'd want to-"

"Just save the goddamn energy, Fine. At least I'm not pock-faced," Joe muttered. "I'm going to bed. Have fun with," he paused mid-sentence and glanced at the desk across the room. "Whatever it is you're doing," The pastry was then tossed into the trash. Something must have gotten through. He pulled his jacket off the hook in the wall with more force than necessary. Joe tackled the ugly article on but made no motion to leave.

"Then go."

"See, the problem is, your skinny ass is blocking the way," Joe used his meaty palm to shove at his partner's shoulder sluggishly, moving as if he were restrained in a dream. Steve moved only a fraction in response, still huddled in the threshold and only allowing a pocket of air for Joe to fit through. Their chests brushed against each other when Joe sidled by and Detective Fine felt a hot huff of air when the other man cursed.

Once Joe left, what was left of Steve's vanity reached up and touched his face to confirm. His fingers traced along acne scars, down to developing jowls, on what used to be a cunning, sharp face.

He was alone now. Astoundingly alone. The limpid lighting fixture and the clinical photographs of a dead man's apartment sprawled all over their desks did nothing to improve the situation. _Now it begins, now that you're gone_ , Steve laughed bitterly and plopped down in his partner's space. His seat was still warm.

Joe was always the less subtle of the pair, leaving traces of himself behind long after he left the room.

**October 20th, 1985**

"Don't bogart the guacamole."

"You call this guacamole? This liquid shit is doesn't even come close to the real thing, Joe."

The detectives were converged around a heap of crumpled wrappers and greasily indistinguishable food, eating standing up from the counter of a taco stand. It was late into the evening and they huddled imperceptibly closer together for warmth under the lit Coca-Cola sign. A radio was on nearby; some Trekkie-sounding professor was explaining the precautions one should take in the face of a nuclear attack. The men didn't pause in their meal, trained their eyes downward. They were wrapped up in their own bubble, conditioned to the hysteria-diffusing media. The nerd's correspondent reminded listeners at home of the graveness of their situation.

Joe spoke up when the program was interrupted by updates on the situation in Afghanistan. "God-awful, what's happenin' over there."

"Oh, sure. They're acting real concerned about 'em." Steve gestured towards the radio. Joe knew that if there was a window in front of him he'd be talking to it, never looking his partner square in the eye if he could help it. "They're just pissing their pants about the Jolly Green Giant disappearing."

"So. The world's gonna end."

"Hey. It's gotta happen sometime," Detective Fine wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, vaguely disgusted with himself. His other hand was off fumbling in his trench-pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Steve suspected the only reason he ever bothered to eat was so he could smoke. Joe tried to read the wrinkles in his partner's brow. It was uncharacteristic for Steve to keep theories about a case from him. And yet here he was, acting like any other asshole in the city going on about Doctor Manhattan instead of talking about Blake.

"An' that's why you've been clammed up about the case," Joe said as they departed from the taco stand.

"Been what?" Steve's arm shot past his partner without warning, and Joe had to stop walking in order to avoid collision when the taller man pulverized his cigarette filter in the brick wall. "Blake was the Comedian."

"Of course he is." Joe watched steadily as the arm returned. "You've got something else stewing in that weird head of yours, Fine. How are we gonna go through with this investigation if-"

"People in this business don't investigate anymore. Nobody's that classy. It's just about goin' in and stirring things up. Confrontational, going on a whim. Breaking fingers, getting names, going in without all the bureaucratic no-"

"That's not what we do. We're professionals. Besides, you're dodging the issue."

"Yeah well, it's not like I've got any ideas. Whoever, er Whatever killed Blake is bigger and more powerful than what we usually deal with."

"There's gotta be some other badges better suited to sojourn this territory." Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, burning in the cold. "I'm too old for this. More I think about it, so are you." Immediately after speaking, Joe winced at the platitude.

Steve didn't respond, only picked up his pace as if to refute his words. He felt the other man's faltering presence as he struggled to keep up. Detective Fine felt like a goddamn ballerina, or a daddy long-legs in comparison, scouring the sidewalk like he was the guy from R. Crumb's "Keep on Truckin'" cartoon. An onslaught of people were suddenly on the street, emerging towards them some concert or show, and Steve slowed down to walk in-tangent with Joe. He grasped his partner's shoulder, as gruffly and masculine as he could manage considering the gesture and the sensation of his own cadaverous hands relishing the warmth of Joe's meaty arm.

Joe, whose face was obscured by the lapels of his coat, nestled into the high collar of his sweater like a turtle retreating into its shell. Strangers passed by, and he felt no desire to know them, or be around them, or talk to them outside his job. But there was Steve, and Joe fought off his initial compulsion to shrug the hand off, that of course they wouldn't lose each other in the crowd because they were two grown men, and they're used to it because they're in Manhattan for goddsake...

"Don't short-change yourself, Joe."

He could have misheard. Joe peeked up from the protective shield around his face to find Steve's uncharacteristically close, lowered and completely oblivious of what was going on around him. Joe harrumphed and made a cloud with his breath in the low temperature, looking like he was smoking alongside his partner.


	3. Chapter 3

**October 21st, 1985**

The first police car pulled away in a wild swerve, others following in hot pursuit. The ambulances left a few minutes later, carrying off the wounded and one dead Edward Jacobi in the opposite direction. Detached from the growing swarm of interested civilians, two detectives lingered in the area, scuffing their shoes on the sidewalk like kids who missed the parade. It wasn't like Steve expected a key to the city for responding to a tip-off, but a reporter or two would have been nice. He smiled bitterly. He and Joe weren't exactly TV-friendly, aesthetically. Steve clapped his hands together, a gesture of finality. He'd dreamed of this moment for years, but once he caught his reflection in the window under the neon glow of the adjacent sex shop's sign, he found his expression was absolutely blank. Fine's shoulders bristled when he felt the piercing gaze of his partner on him.

"I never really thought about what he looked like but I wasn't expecting that," Joe's thoughts trailed off into the distance.

"What, an overgrown tramp version of Alfred E. Neuman?" The sirens died away and the streets hummed in eerie silence, void of its only devout protector.

Steve turned around. Joe's eyes were mirthless, dark and considerate behind his flipped collar. "I could use a drink."

"A celebration is in order," Steve replied. The words tasted weird coming out; the conversation felt stunted as if read off a teleprompter. _Rorschach is gone. He never even existed._ "There's Hannigan's up the street." _Just a middle-aged fool, past his prime. Geezer can't be any younger than me._

Joe pulled a face at the suggestion. "How about my place?"

Steve scoffed, a knee-jerk reaction. "You expect me to celebrate in that dump?" Joe started towards the car, ignoring the teasing. His partner had only ever seen the outside of his building. And the mailroom. "Well, at least we can catch the late news," the blonde man huffed as he got into the passenger's seat. "Do you even have a TV? Must be hard to fit one in there with all the cats you've got stinkin' up the place," Steve further speculated, spitting on the carpeted floor between his knees for good measure.

"Damnit! You have to do that?" Joe blurted out, eyes fixed on the road. Maybe it was a trick of the traffic lights, but he looked like he was suppressing a smile. "This car ain't mine, yaknow."

"Yeah, that's why you lemme off the hook everytime."

"I'm allergic to cats. Why you think I have cats is beyond me, Fine." A not-uncomfortable silence followed, punctuated by the dull sound of Steve packing his box of cigarettes against his left palm. "Gimme one of those," Joe held out a hand with a crooked grin and turned to his partner for a moment before looking back at the road. "Yaknow, if we're celebrating."

Steve suddenly felt flushed at his partner's expression, his demand for a cigarette. His hands were clearly shaking as he opened the pack and fished two out. "Christ, Joe. How long's it been?" Steve knew well how long it'd been. Two years. He'd always been bitter about Joe's sudden decision to quit, as if he were just doing it to spite Steve, prove he was the better man. A certain level of camaraderie was lost between them once Joe stopped lighting up alongside him. "Anyways, it's good ta have you back."

Joe's smile disappeared. "I'm just _celebrating_."

The transaction occurred at a stoplight that seemed to last forever. Steve handed the butt to Joe and shifted in his seat to light it once it was between the other man's lips. The detective scowled to find that his hands were still shaky, and for the life of him he couldn't get the lighter to ignite. Click. Click. For every aborted attempt Steve's inexplicable condition worsened, but Joe didn't appear impatient or annoyed by it. Instead he wrapped his hand around Steve's wrist in support to quell his shaking. Their eyes met over the flame and Joe inhaled and exhaled, his grip slowly withdrawing from Steve, one finger at a time. An amorphous cloud of longing suddenly blocked Steve's vision, and he fumbled with the lighter and started his own cigarette, mouth numb, not even wanting the thing at all. He could still feel Joe's eyes on him from the other seat.

Joe's face was hidden behind a film of smoke, his voice creaked. "Do you-" Suddenly the driver behind them laid into their horn, and Joe finally broke his gaze away from his partner, seeing the stretch of tar empty of traffic in front of him. The horrible sound kept going as he fumbled with the cigarette, taking it in and out of his mouth, acting as if he had forgotten how to smoke as well as how to drive. Finally he settled his hands on the wheel and stepped on the gas, cursing to himself and jumping a little every time the horn went off. "Alright alright, cool your jets!"

They went on for a while without further incident. Steve's thoughts were running a mile a minute, but physically he was exhausted. His eyes were fixed on the lights and stores outside his window, lanky body slouched so far into the seat that his knees were pressed against the dashboard. He couldn't wait to kick back on Joe's couch, which he supposed wasn't covered in cat hair afterall.

Another part of him didn't want to be around Joe at all. He was sick of the guy, he was sick of the way he felt around him. He still felt obliged to say something: "How much longer...?"

"Just a few more blocks," Joe's voice had returned to normal, the cigarette he was indulging in renewed his confidence. "Really we woulda been better off walking. But no way am I leaving the car in that part of town."

"Hey Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"We got that fucker, didn't we?"

"We sure did," Joe's smile returned, something so rare and genuine that Steve couldn't help but feel flustered again.

**October 22nd, 1985**

Detective Bourquin looked as though he had been violently taken out of it, if not sleep then some sort of deep appeasement. The fulfillment of the day which had passed left traces of exhaustion and spiritual stagnation across his middle aged being. Seated, his body surrounded in plush, sinking couch cushions, Joe realized he needed to breathe for a while. Joe eventually took to glaring at the television set across the room, sweating it down, interrogating the screen for answers. The only answer the blank, black television screen would surrender in all its infinite capacity for sending blinking lights and images was a simultaneously shrunken and blown up distortion of himself clutching a tumbler, his partner standing off in the background. The reflection showed him sitting attentive, staring himself down with the determination of one who thinks he has been beaten down.

On the other side of the room, Steve swayed on long limbs, gazing out the window of Joe's apartment into the alley below. The rain started minutes after they walked in the door. Earlier, the relentless pattering on the fire escape provided a soothing white noise while the detectives huddled, still standing, around the TV to watch for Rorschach on the news. The report provided some satisfaction, some closure to the whole mess, but there were still many unanswered questions. Steve wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Now, hours later, two beers each and most of a bottle of whiskey split among them, Steve couldn't figure out what the hell he was still doing here. The tube was off and a jazz record was playing at a soft volume in lieu of conversation, which had ceased a while ago. Nothing was going on, but Steve didn't feel particularly compelled to go home. He'd been impressed with Joe's apartment, despite the squalidness of the building he managed to put together a nice place, pretty sparse but clean, and comfortable. Basically it was the drastic opposite to Steve's place, which was a little too lived in, cluttered and grim, walls covered with notes and posters which were all up for the sake of nostalgia. Like a proper adult, Joe had a scattering of framed newspaper clippings and art prints decorating the room. One that Steve recognized and commented on earlier was something by William Blake.

Joe looked pretty zonked out over on the couch, hidden in the shadow outside the lamplight. Steve wasn't sure whether it were wiser to let sleeping dogs lie, but he was starting to feel anxious standing there in the dark.

"Joe," he whined "Come on, I thought we were celebrating."

"Sure we are," Joe rationalized, to Steve's surprise, in a state of full consciousness. "You think I drink this much on my own?"

"Don't you?" His partner quietly sniffed and rubbed at the side of his face, a gesture Steve had never seen before. Steve continued, "How else do you cope with living in hell?"

"Sit down, Steve. You're making me nervous."

Joe watched his partner as he limped into the sphere of soft light. He had to suppress himself from voicing the sudden desire for Steve to move in with him. To bring in all his crappy prog albums and fill the place with the stench of cigarettes, to bicker with and sit in companionable silence together every night. Joe knew his partner was the only one who could chase away the loneliness, the only person that made Hell bearable. Joe was overwhelmed, his head began to spin, he quickly swerved his gaze from the unbearably attractive man approaching back to the empty television screen. The old couch creaked when Steve settled down into it, none the wiser.

Steve could sense things were getting uncomfortable. Joe stiffened on the other end, his broad hand returning to pass over his face, rubbing at some nonexistent crawling. The blonde man looked at the television screen in tandem. He couldn't figure out what Joe could find so interesting to see there. Conversation was definitely at a loss. Steve considered bringing up Rorschach again but the man had been a pox on their professional lives, and now that the guy was under glass it seemed pointless. The record sputtered to an end.

"How did we get into this." Joe was quiet in response, neither was sure what that was supposed to mean, but most of their friendship was built on non sequiturs anyways. "Maybe I should go," Steve mustered an air of casualness and stretched his arms out as if he were just coming to the realization that he was tired. He was wide awake.

"No, hey look, sorry this is boring," Joe scrambled, still not looking his partner in the eye. He shifted and in the process his knee pressed against Steve's. That spot of contact remained; Joe seemed oblivious and carried on. "I've got plenty more booze, y'know, we could watch a movie or-"

"Okay, okay, just. Shut up." Something weird was going on. Since when was Joe desperate? Was Steve the one doing this to him? Disturbed, he jerked his knee away from the other man's. "Yeah, I think I will. Go."

"At least let me give you a ride, man." Joe deflated. "It's late."

Steve shook his head and staggered up to something resembling a standing position. His legs felt like they were going to fail on him any minute. "I feel like walking."

"You're drunk," Joe accused.

Steve turned a clumsy about-face, peering at Joe and barely recognizing him. Or seeing him clearly for the first time, he wasn't sure. "No, I'm not. Screw you, you don't know how much I can handle."

When Joe suddenly leaned forward his face was cast in stark contrast from the lamp. He met his partner square in the eye for the first time that night.

Steve felt slightly threatened. He also felt a spark of excitement at the unexpected intensity of the situation, which he tried to ignore. "Where's my jacket," he muttered.

"Better be careful, the streets are a little less safe tonight," Joe started without thinking. "Now that Rorschach's gone."

"You're really starting to piss me off, Bourquin. Whose side are you on? Don't act like you don't know how that rabid scumbag would kill me in an _instant_. I'm his biggest goddamn enemy."

"Just you, Steve?"

"That's right, just me! I'm the brains in this fucking operation. You haven't cracked a case in years, you're just along for the ride. You're... you're..." Steve shuddered and brought his hand up, a sobering gesture as he realized what he was saying. His hand fell and clasped uselessly at his side, he didn't mean any of it.

"Go ahead, say it," Joe felt himself shattering inside. But he knew he started it. _Goading my sunnovabitch partner to admit how full of himself he is isn't the best tactic to get him to stay._ When Steve shook his head Joe completed the sentence for him. "I'm past my prime."

The detective turned around and emitted a quivering sigh. "Where's my jacket?"

Joe stood up and he couldn't even pretend to be angry, and that fact was defeating. He felt like the world was melting around him when he walked past Steve and opened the closet. It was a familiar position for them: standing at the threshold, watching the other get his coat on, unable to get away fast enough.

Steve attempted to smooth down the rumpled front of his jacket self-consciously. "See you tomorrow?"

"I think it's technically tomorrow already."

"Okay, well, I'll see ya when I see ya," Steve weakly offered, and the door was shut behind him.

Morning arrived too quickly. Although Joe usually slid out of bed with an eagerness to get out of his empty apartment as quickly as possible, the prospects of the new day were only met with trepidation. The craving for a smoke agitated the detective to the point of mania as he drove to work through a red haze. At a light he observed a grouping of pedestrians waiting for the bus, completely immersed in the newspapers they were clutching. Each edition, despite differences in language or political bend, shared one glaring trait in common: Rorschach's mug shot. Plastered on the front page, the poor freak was exposed at last for all the world to gawk at.

When Joe entered the precinct he was met with congratulations and affectionate wallops on the back. His colleagues bodily hustled him into the breakroom, where a sheetcake and plates were already set out, despite it being barely eight in the morning. It took a minute for Joe to recognize what was actually on the cake, and when he did the ground shifted, the wall of people around him closed in. He leaned forward and gripped the table to keep his balance, coming face to face with the thing. Rorschach's mask was there, on the goddamn cake, crudely rendered in chocolate and vanilla icing.

The most grotesque detail was the blots, the way they formed a ditzy smile. It might as well have included a speech bubble that said _Duh, oops! Ya got me!_ Jolted, disturbed, Joe forced a laugh for the expectant and decided today was going to be the day he started smoking again.

"Where's Fine, that sunnuvabitch!" Harper cried out. He was in one of his rare good moods, cheeks flushed, looking like a grim Santa Clause. "Can't cut this thing without 'im."

Joe stared down at his boots, wishing he could get out of the room. The detective wondered if maybe he could laugh this off if his partner were by his side. The unexpected tension and the words (spoken and unspoken) from the night before floated in his memory.

Roughly an hour later and Steve was a no-show. Joe, finally alone in their office, reached for the phone on his desk for about the hundreth time. This time, he determined, he would dial.

He finally did, dread growing at each digit punched. Joe was surprised to hear it ring; he hardly ever called Steve at his home, didn't even know if the number he found was valid. They used their pagers sometimes, but usually they made plans in person and were reliable enough about it. When Joe considered it, staring dead-eyed ahead and holding the receiver timidly, they hadn't had an actual conversation on the telephone in a couple of years. Four, in fact.

He remembered that time. Despite the tragedy which surrounded that particular day, it was a fond memory. Joe smiled to himself.

Joe had been upstate for his mother's funeral for a chilly Spring week. He returned to his apartment defeated, dragging a suitcase with his black suit crumbled up inside and the few items he'd obtained from the old woman's meager estate. She hadn't left a will, so her belongings were divided among her children. Joe could only bear to take the clock she'd always had on her nightstand and some of her records. He let his sisters fight over the rest and tried not to hate them for it.

Later, Joe stepped out of the shower to the phone ringing. He hastily wrapped a towel around himself and ran to pick it up, emitting a breathless greeting.

"Joe? How are you?" The phone slipped out of Joe's watery grip and he fumbled to pick it back up. On the other end, Steve took the silence as hostility. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your... Y'know, the Landolfi case tied me down. Don't worry, you haven't missed anything fun, just load of paperwork."

"It's fine, it's fine. And I'm fine, I just got through the door." Joe perched on the couch. "I can get over there soon, help you out. To be honest, I could use the distraction."

"No, no, you don't need that. I'm not even at the precinct."

"Where are you?"

Steve laughed, muffled over the phone. "I'm in the neighborhood."

"What, mine?" Joe glanced towards the window, just realizing that he was only wearing a threadbare towel.

"No, Mr. Rogers'... How's it feel to be back in the big city?" He asked snidely. "Right now, outside of the booth, some greaser and his little friend are giving me the stinkeye. Looks like they heard you're back. You've got a regular welcoming parade out here, Joe."

Joe laughed as he stood up, dragging the suitcase to the closet and shutting it in there, so he didn't have to look at it. The cord wouldn't let him go any further, so he went to the couch, still feeling a little funny about talking to Steve naked, even if the guy wasn't actually there.

"Listen," his partner continued. "Get the curlers out of your hair, put on your Sunday frock, and get down here. I'm taking you out for a night on the town."

"How about a burger," Joe replied, deadpan.

"Dinner and a movie," Steve corrected. "I'll be outside," he said ominously, and hung up before Joe could put in a word.

Someone had let Steve inside and he was waiting with arms crossed defensively when Joe came down.

Joe knew sympathy was something big and unwieldy and impossible to handle, and he was thankful for Steve's schtick on the phone. It made him feel normal again. But Joe hadn't been prepared for what happened next. If anyone else had been in the mailroom, Joe doubted it would have happened at all. But it did. Steve approached him, and to deaf hears, (since Joe could barely hear over his own hammering pulse), he murmured, "Sorry about your ma." And he pulled him in for an embrace. Joe, with embarrassing alacrity, wrapped his arms around the lean man. Steve was the first to pull away, ending the event as abruptly as it started.

"Thanks, Steve."

Over grub their conversation returned to its usual beat, Joe made fun of his hometown and asked about their current case. Steve talked about Landolfi but carefully avoided mentioning the murder itself, and went through the paper, sharing his opinion on all the movies that were out even though he hadn't seen any of them. Steve wanted to see _Excalibur_. Joe didn't have an opinion on the matter but, in order to keep their banter alive, still complained about the choice. The more he talked, Joe had figured, the less time he had to think about the hug.

The theater was practically empty, and Joe went for a spot directly in the middle, assuming Steve would wind up a seat or two away so they each had room to stretch. But his partner plopped down right beside him. The guy defied expectations. That was something Joe admired about him. Joe lost interest in the film halfway through, instead focusing on Steve's shoulder pressed imperceptibly against his, and the way their elbows were constantly meeting and drawing apart on the shared armrest.

From then on feelings about Steve were something that Joe had to live with, something that developed over time like his trick knee. Something to be endured, an affliction with no cure, something to adapt to and ignore whenever it flared up.

The ring tone died out, no answer. Joe removed the receiver from his sweaty ear and hung it up. He paced over to Steve's barren desk and sat on the edge, staring out the window at the pavement below. He refused to worry.


	4. Chapter 4

**October 24th, 1985**

Steve was alone, it had always been that way.

He was pushed onward by a pervasive force, stumbling down the empty street. His coat whipped the air behind him as a gust of wind advanced. Thousands of pieces of paper and debris danced through the air all around, creating a macabre ticker-tape parade. Steve struggled to turn his head when his eye was caught by a crumpled page of the Gazette in tumbling flight. The next moment the paper was in his hands, and although it was blood-spattered and worn, it was that day's edition. The headline read: PEACE AT LAST?

The newspaper dissolved and strong arms were suddenly clutching Steve, first hanging on his shoulders then pulling at the poplin on his chest until it tore. Steve realized the hands belonged to Joe, and he couldn't look above or below his face because it was charred. He lamented his dying friend and reached for him in turn. As they grappled down to the ground Steve understood he was dying too and somehow it was okay, because at least they were together.

Their ears were assaulted by dissonant sound. The world around them erupted in rapturous sonic fury. Joe said something, but he couldn't understand, he _can't_ –

Steve bolted upright from the bar. Gasping from his stupor, he woke like an apneac who teeters on the edge of asphyxial death in the throes of gentle sleep. The detective's gangly arms involuntarily swept the surface, knocking a tumbler on its side. The drink lazily spilled over the edge of the countertop, outside his blind reach.

"Christ!" complained an observer.

The day before, Steve finally dragged himself out of the apartment to face the world post-Rorschach. He'd entered the office to see Joe gnarled at his desk, faintly snoring into his hands which curled around his face like a child. When Steve stepped closer, Joe shifted and exhaled sharply, the file beneath him rustling. Steve braced himself, he still didn't know what kind of terms they were on after the other night. They'd always picked on each other, but... something was different. He'd picked up a few papers from his desk and slipped out like the coward he was, managing to avoid anyone about to hang him out to dry for neglecting his job.

The detective held his head and ordered another drink when the bartender came around with a towel. The sap seemed distracted, only giving the bar a cursory swipe as he stared at the television set in the back. Steve didn't have to look up to know what was on; he could hear the ticking of that damned fear-mongering doomsday clock. He thought about Mrs. Hirsch, her slaughtered children, and subsequently dug his fingers into his eyes until he saw tiny explosions.

"Your eyes will go back into your skull if you do that." The outsider spoke again. Detective Fine was starting to get pissed off. A nice barfight might be just the thing to clear his head. He blinked until his vision returned, still spotty, and surveyed the joint to see who had the gall to speak up. Aside from the oblivious bartender, he was alone. Steve felt uneasy, he hadn't gotten wasted to the point of blacking out since his teenage years. Way back, when he carried around a switchblade and his buddies called him Fine. The girls called him Steven. The girls who threw themselves at him like he was something special.

Steve peered down into his murky glass. It was alarming how easily Joe came to his thoughts, especially when he thought of his youth. He wished Joe could've seen him then, seen how much he changed. The way he was before he picked up his first Chandler novel and got big ideas in his head.

He put down the rest of his scotch in a single swallow. Joe was better with women; he understood them. They relaxed where they tensed around Steve. They cried easily around Joe, like it was release. At first glance his partner didn't look like the warmest guy, but his eyes were so serious and deep that you couldn't help but fall into them, to pay attention to whatever he was going to say next, trust those big hands and that rare smile.

Steve let physiognomy work in his favor. His scrappiness, his scowl gave away his intentions as a cop.

The bartender was breaching his line of vision. Steve turned his attention toward him, seeking company, desperately looking for Joe in the stranger. The kid was too young and stupid to be anything like his partner, but Steve still felt an abstract surge of desire when he studied the man's arms, the way his veins pulsed as they gripped the edge of the counter.

"Hey," Steve lightly touched the bartender's fist. He flinched away violently and looked away from the TV as if it were painful. "Y'ever been in love?" No response. He repeated the question.

The young man shifted uncomfortably, sensing that this customer was bad news. "I think you'd better leave."

"I'd rather stay, thanks." Steve picked up his glass and spit into it.

"Alright, I'm telling you now, you gotta leave."

Steve was spiraling down into oblivion. Incensed, he staggered off the stool and casually shifted the lining of his coat to reveal the edge of his gun holster. The bartender seized up in fear and backed away until bottles were rattling behind him.

"L-listen," the kid started, "I don't know what you want, but..." His placating ceased when a group of patrons entered, laughing amongst themselves in the cold air they let in. Steve felt like a flasher interrupted and quickly closed his coat and proceeded to button it up. He felt ill. He let himself out.

The patrol van was big enough to fit an entire wedding party of of Top Knots. Joe felt absurd driving the behemoth around, wincing every time the brakes squealed. An egging was expected around every corner. The detective's broad hand fidgeted with the radio dial until the station cleared and a vaguely European-sounding woman's voice issued through the airwaves, Sun Ra playing in the background: Psychic Hour with Mama Abene. Joe creaked forward in his seat to turn up the volume.

"- _will find you in the night, where only the lonely love. At night we laugh and we see ourselves how we would have looked  had we been eternally young. Everyone is beautiful under the moon's gaze, women who roam the streets under neon lights are always anxious to give you a personal tour of their past. In her bedroom the moon is a stained glass window, a rock of love. The night is surprisingly luminous with all that it lacks. Stay tuned for our astrological forecast during this void of course when-_ "

Detective Fine walked with care, guiding himself through the unfamiliar neighborhood. He gripped onto the loose bricks of the tagged wall beside him, lingering on the edge of some nightmarish skating rink. _Not that I've ever skated in my life._ He watched his breath stutter and condense, feeling a sense of fleeting, yet sobering relief with every chilled inhale.

The fog suddenly grew bright and washed over him. Bewildered, Steve lost his footing and allowed himself to fall, blinking away the spotlight burning his eyes. He heard a car door, footsteps, heavy breathing. Beyond the indistinguishable black form approaching were the lights of a cop car. _Shit_. "Wait a minute, waitaminute officer," he muttered. "Look." The detective grabbled for his badge and removed it from his inner pocket, only to have it slapped away upon presentation.

"Goddamnit, Steve!"

Steve registered his partner's face peering at him, close enough he could smell the guy's soap. Joe's mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes watered. Steve reached for the hand that cuffed his and clasped it to his chest. "Joe," he started, unable to continue, but immensely relieved.

Once his hand was let go, Joe collected the badge and helped Steve into a standing position. Leading him to the curb, he couldn't process anything but _get him off the street, into the van, into your apartment, never let the son of a bitch out of your sight again_.

"Nice heap," Fine observed as he was shepherded into the passenger's seat. "They've got you workin' the beat again, Bourquin?"

Joe was abashed to find himself belting his partner in as if he were an infant. "Everybody has to drive these things now, y'know, post-Rorschach. To make police presence more known." He shuffled around to the other side of the car and plopped into the driver's seat, allowing himself to believe everything was back to normal, even after the unexplained three-day-absence. "Of course I'm not sure how the hell that's gonna to help anything or what I'm s'posed to be doing right now," he glanced at his partner, who was staring out the opposite window. "Guess picking up stiffs like you's a good place to start."

With dull predictability Steve lit up as soon as he was seated, but not before nudging the pack in Joe's direction, who wordlessly declined. Once they hit the road the detectives retreated into a melancholy silence, Mama Abene prattling on in the background. 

Casually whisping smoke invaded the side window and cast shadows of dramatic contemplation on Steve's worn face. The tension between them grew with every intake and subsequent release of breath.

Throughout the ride Joe kept a stray eye on his partner, who swayed submissively with the movements of his driving. He was far gone. Steve's head eventually lolled back on the headrest, cigarette limp in his mouth and scattering ash on his coat. At a stoplight Joe allowed himself to stare at his pale throat, jutting Adam's apple, how debauched and uncharacteristically open the man looked with his eyes closed and collar undone. _We should talk. We should but we never will. When did this thing become so precarious?_

Steve felt himself getting hard, knowing he was being watched. He seized in terror as he felt his cigarette being taken away, could smell Joe smoking it himself. He opened his eyes when Joe killed the engine, allowed the man to open his door and unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Can you walk?" Joe asked, voice strained.

As tempting as it was to let the big guy carry him up five flights of stairs into his living room honeymoon-style, Steve nodded that yes, he could walk.

Steve was relieved that he'd flagged sometime during the process of actually getting inside Joe's apartment. It wasn't the most arousing trip. After the second floor Steve had been reduced to crawling up the steep creaking goddamn stairs and complaining loudly about it. Joe stalled impatiently behind to make sure he didn't accidentally kill himself, and told him to shut the hell up every time they reached a landing.

Once safely inside, Steve threw his coat in the direction of the closet and migrated to the now-familiar couch. He stretched out on it to face the back, so grateful he could hardly breathe. A shuffling silence followed. He fought sleep, feeling Joe's presence still in the room. Steve didn't want to talk, didn't want to think, he just wanted to slip into the oblivion. He removed his holster and shoved it under the couch before burrowing further into the cushions, dead-asleep before any other thought could reach him.


	5. Chapter 5

**October 25th, 1985**

First corpse of the day. 

As soon as he hung up with Harper, Detective Bourquin indulged in a tuneless bout of humming, swallowing dread with every pause. Brush teeth, ignore reflection, get dressed in something green, _maybe it's brown_. Finding out would involve turning the lights on. Joe fingered his hair into order as he padded through the apartment towards the kitchen.

He remembered everything while studying his own swollen hands pouring water into the Mr. Coffee. Joe checked; even with his bleary morning-vision he recognized the familiar form still stretched across the sagging couch. 

The air in the room was altered; Steve, for once defenseless in mute unconsciousness, emitted a heady blend of cigarettes and stale sweat overlaying Nostalgia. Joe's eyes traced over Steve's long body, taking in all of him at once, suddenly rapacious for more. He stuttered to a halt at the brogues hanging over the couch's arm. The toes were pointed inward, a delusive gesture of vulnerability. The tagged feet of a corpse.

Joe held the weathered molding of the doorframe as memory summoned a murder-suicide from years ago. The image of the slain victim superimposed itself onto his partner. A bullet-hole marred Steve's chest as he lounged, comfortable in death. 

_I should take his shoes off, throw a blanket over him._

Vexed by his thoughts, Joe hastened back to the kitchen. _I'm not his goddamned mother._ He added more water to make a full pot and tensed himself as the percolation of the machine synced with the churning of his insides. Joe doled out Steve's cup before it finished brewing. Coffee sputtered out of the pot, spilling on the formica and spreading into a vicious black pool on the floor. 

Standing at the foot of the couch, he felt exasperated. _What do I say, Good morning?_ "There's been a murder."

Steve lurched into consciousness. Something hot and black was thrust into his hands; it spilled on his thighs and burned dully through his trousers. " _There's been a_ \--" He groaned as the room tilted, shook his head in protest. "So ya finally killed me, Joe... Never thought you had the balls." He lifted his gaze towards the breathing penumbra. It shifted uncertainly, then floated out of the room as mysteriously as it entered.

Joe opened the refrigerator just to stare inside and appear preoccupied. He took inventory of his meager breakfast options: _expired cream, half a loaf of bread, jar of spaghetti sauce_. They didn't have long before the body was expunged from the crime scene _male, Hispanic, mid-twenties, beaten to death on Kenmare and Elizabeth_. 

A handful of feet away Steve held the coffee with undue concentration, forgetting what exactly he was supposed to do with its burning weight. _Joe. Am I still drunk?_ He heard mundane clinking from the kitchen. Steve peered between his knees towards the floor, focusing beyond the tremor running through him. The edge of his holster was peeking out from underneath the couch, sharp mechanical black against the indeterminate beige carpet-color. The encased chrome steel was shining, winking flirtatiously in his swimming vision. Steve wondered why he was anthropomorphizing his gun, and exactly how long _I've been such a cliché._ He gathered the bundle off the ground and removed the weapon from its leather trappings.

"Is that s'posed to impress me?" Joe entered, balancing a full plate and his own cup of coffee. He stared evenly at his friend, at the dark item on his lap and the darker expression on his face. Joe struggled to hide his discomfort regarding the third presence in the room. The couch depressed under him as he sat down. Joe hadn't worn iron since he was in uniform.

Steve managed to shrug and brandish in the same gesture. 

"Look, we got a few minutes," Joe lied. 

_A few minutes? For what? What could we do in a few minutes?_ Steve noticed the plate of dry toast precariously balanced on the cushion between them. No one made any move to eat.

"You're off the edge Steve. I don't know what pushed you." Joe bristled as the safety catch was played with. Click. Click. Steve raised the gun and turned it, considering its weight, its power. Aimed it at the television, the toast, his own pulsing temple.

"Y'know Steve, this little act of yours would be hilarious if I actually trusted you."

"You don't trust me?" Steve croaked. 

"No, not anymore."

Steve didn't know why that made him feel like the world was falling down, crumbling from the inside-out at the idea that Joe, _Joe_ didn't trust him. But this was all an act, wasn't it? He stilled when a broad, familiar hand joined his on the cold Kahr.

Joe continued. "Maybe we've been partners too long," He winced. "It... It doesn't work anymore. You shut me out."

"I think I need to feel some real fear in my life," Steve mumbled cryptically, hyper-aware of how effectively he was being restrained under his partner's obstinate grip. They fit perfectly together. 

Even if their union benefited no one else, if they didn't crack every case that was thrust upon them, their flaws and strengths completed each other. When it came right down to the truth, polygraph hooked up and spotlight blinding: Joe was the only reason Steve had to wake up in the morning. _And here I am, destroying this. He deserves to move on, settle down with a family, bring coffee and toast to his wife._ Steve tilted the gun towards himself, only able to get as far as his mid-section under Joe's hold. 

Joe had no choice but to follow the motion, thinking of the best way to safely disarm Steve. His palms were sweating. "Christ." Joe shifted his weight and the plate toppled to the floor. _Careful, careful._ "Let it go. This shit ain't funny."

"Go ahead, Bourquin. Take it." Steve's index finger slipped out of the trigger guard and the gun was relinquished, safety turned on. Joe wanted to throw the miserable thing into the East River. Settling for the next best thing, he placed it delicately under the lamp on the side table.

Joe couldn't see past his anger, his confusion. And when he dared to look at Steve all he saw was that rehearsed blank scowl directed across the room, interrupted occasionally by drunken hiccups. 

Joe lunged.

It was like diving into oblivion. In an instant he was across the couch, fists-first. He clasped each of his partner's tensed shoulders through his wrinkled, pungent shirt. His fingers slipped and found abstract purchase under taut suspenders. Joe wanted to curse, to insult the bastard, shake him up, but he could only breathe. Time felt slowed down; he hadn't even any caffeine yet. Joe effectively had Steve underneath him, thwarted into submission. And he had no idea what to do next.

Steve couldn't do much either caged underneath Joe, whose expression, hidden in shadow, was brimming with hatred, desperation. Steve blinked as he tried to process his friend from this angle. Not above: walking side by side tracking or bickering or not talking at all. Not across: framed in fluorescence and ketchup-stains, or across a pile of dead bodies and police tape. But _underneath_. 

They were close enough to share the same breath but their eyes evaded contact.

A corporeal memory suddenly occurred to Steve as their position remained intact, neither of them moving a muscle to prevent it from evolving. He remembered being a child, long before the gang days and the switchblade. It was summer vacation, he was playing football in a swampy retention basin with the neighborhood boys. Steve had the ball. He'd panicked, outnumbered and not very fast, and resorted to laying prone in the grass, protecting the ball under his stomach from the opposing team. His buddies were relentless and piled on top of him. Steve's hysterical laughter was smothered by their combined weight. His own team even joined in, the game then dissolving into a massive revelry of mud-wrestling. Later he'd tried to recreate that sensation, gathering every pillow and cushion he could find in his house and burying himself at the bottom. 

At that moment, with Joe pressing him into the couch, Steve felt overwhelmingly, irrationally _safe_. Then everything erupted into pain. 

Joe brought himself to stand, picked up his cup and tried not to vomit as tepid black coffee filled his mouth. The hand he'd struck his partner with pulsed; he wrung it covertly at his side.

"Guess I deserved that," Steve muttered behind his own hand, rubbing the right half of his face. He let out a startled laugh.

Joe deflated from relief, turned away to collect his coat and keys. "You coming?"

The morgue was a safe space, where silence lived and small problems were put into perspective. Of course they were too late to the crime scene; Joe could've guessed as much during the excruciatingly quiet car ride there. 

Joe observed his partner standing on the other side of the drawer alongside Harper, their unwelcome company for the morning. Steve's gauntness was cruelly picked out in the lighting, the marks on his right jaw and cheekbone from earlier emerging purple. Harper didn't comment on them, likely didn't see them in the first place since everyone (with the exception of Joe) avoided looking too closely at Steve's mug. 

When the bag was unzipped Joe remained fixated on Steve, stilled by the way he blanched at the reveal. Joe looked down, seeing nothing that would warrant such a reaction. The detective hadn't worn that expression in ages, even the most gruesome cases could hardly provoke a furrow of the brow.

Harper noticed too, leaning in conspiratorially. "Fine? What're you seeing?"

Steve reached out to graze a gloved finger along the dead veins that roped the victim's arm. He remembered the stranger's fixation on the news, how absorbed he was in terror. _Maybe he knew the end was really coming, his personal end. Knew he wouldn't even survive to see it all go, see the clock strike twelve._ "Saw him last night, serving drinks at... The location eludes me right now... Seemed nervous, there may have been a hit out on 'em." 

"It's good to know your newfound alcoholism is coming in handy," Harper scoffed, already halfway out the door. "Lemme know when the _location_ comes back to you."

The detectives remained, studying the corpse as the attendant stood by. 

"Breakfast?" Joe offered. _Everything's peachy. Everything's going to stay the way it's always been._


	6. Chapter 6

**October 27th, 1985**

The diner placemat was a convenient target for destruction, edges torn with hands restless for lack of a cigarette. Joe held his pen instead, absently rolling the cap between his molars while below he created red lines that defiled the advertisements. His coffee was refilled by a disembodied, manicured hand. He grumbled his thanks, connected the dots to Orion. 

Joe covertly spit out the plastic that he'd chewed into waste. If the inkstains that decorated the inside of his pockets was any gauge, this was the antecedent fate of every pen cap that fell into the detective's possession. Joe scanned his surroundings over the coffee cup rim. 

He stifled his surprise when he found Steve entering the establishment with all his accursed well-timing. A memory entered the back of Joe's mind as he watched Steve cross the room, wearily picking his way through the staff and customers with a fixed destination because _of course_ he already knew where his partner was sitting. 

It was years ago, their second meeting, in fact. Serial killings concentrated in East Harlem brought hotshot rookie Fine to the homicide division to work the case alongside competent Bourquin. They'd arranged a time to meet and follow the lead with the most potential, all discussed amidst piles of paperwork, grisly crime scene photos, and tentative introductory banter. The next day Joe waited in front of the designated drugstore, chainsmoking and increasingly annoyed at the prospect of a partner. Once he saw Fine's expression as he approached his irritation dissolved. He looked like he was actually _happy_ to see Joe, smiling with a warmth frankly inappropriate considering the circumstances that brought them together. But there he was. Apologizing for being late as he raised an equally nicotine-stained hand to shake, self-effacement deceptive of his true cocksure nature. Joe had nodded distractedly as he silently reconsidered whether having a partner would cramp his style or not.

The Steve Fine of the present did not smile at his partner, but offered a scowl that wasn't without its familiar affection. "Appreciate you meetin' me here," he slid into the vinyl booth. "Bonalez' family's wearing me out, their place is just a few blocks over and my blood sugar's done a belly flop," he ran fingers through his blonde hair in an unguarded moment, ordered a slice of pecan pie when the waitress passed. After she left he glanced at the specials spelled out in block letters beyond the counter. "Shit, I might get a sandwich too. Nothing like a routine gang slaying to fuel the ol' appetite." he muttered, an afterthought.

Joe fiddled with his pen, pretending not to focus on the right half of Steve's profile. The mark had ripened into a distinct yellow bruise. Joe felt a private sense of wonderment that he'd affected Steve in such a physical way. Left his imprint. He had to swallow before he could speak. "I like this place, hard to believe I've never stopped in before."

"It has its charm..." Steve's gaze left the counter up front and swept across the room, silent as he partook in some people-watching. "I can wager there's sinister shit being discussed all around us."

"Makes ya feel at home."

Steve inhaled the pie once it was set down in front of him. Joe, once again absorbed in the placemat, didn't seem to notice when Steve took his coffee from under his nose and dispatched the rest of the black liquid in one wincing gulp. Mind buzzing, he watched as his partner scribbled, with dead seriousness, horns and a Van Dyke on the mug of one of the top criminal lawyers in Manhattan. Steve turned away to the window when Joe moved his pen to another advertisement, seemingly uninterested in sharing the joke. 

Things were still strained between them. Steve knew it was his fault, for inexplicably bailing out on his job to indulge in a liquor-soaked holiday and using his gun as a melodramatic prop in front of his only friend. Harper already threatened suspension, but if Joe wasn't on his side life was a real nightmare. He scraped the fork against the china in stubborn jerks, collecting the sugar-coated pecans left behind. "Whaddya have to show me?"

Joe visibly brightened that moment. He pocketed the uncapped pen and pulled out a manilla envelope which he proceeded to slide tantalizingly across the table. Steve picked it up, noticing, then studiously ignoring the way Joe's chapped lips were twitching with the traces of a grin. From the envelope he removed a small, grainy author headshot of a heavyset bespectacled man attached to a photocopied article.

"'Blood from the Shoulder of Pallas'," Steve read the title aloud, laying each page out among the diner ware. He lit a cigarette to disguise his own puzzled expression. "Daniel Dreiberg," he speculated.

"Our friend, the professor-type at Blake's funeral." 

"Of course... Goddamned _owls_ ," Steve's laughter bubbled up through the cloud of smoke and Joe couldn't help but join in. For the first time in ages, everything felt nearly _right_.

Steve perused the article. His head had been wrapped around the bartender for days, he'd left Joe to take the reigns on the Comedian and his inner-circle. They'd hit multifarious roadblocks during the case, from bureaucratic to lack of cooperation, but details were starting to come to a disturbing clarity, teetering on the precipice of something bigger than either of them had ever dealt with before. 

Joe stared at his partner under his brow, tamping down the familiar itching of desire as he noticed a stray crumb lingering in the corner of Steve's mouth. Half-formed questions remained unvoiced. _Why-_ Why wasn't there anyone? Or was there and Steve just wasn't telling him about her? _You never married._ Why was there no one else? _No one else but me?_

Spatial awareness came flooding back to Joe in a rush at the sound of raised voices. In the center of the diner a scraggly teenaged topknot and an older man whose wardrobe insinuated an affiliation with the Hells Angels were circling each other like caged predators. The waitstaff lingered, welding coffee pots and dirty plates, wary at the fringe. Under their table Joe's foot nudged at Steve's trousered shin, alerting him of the developing situation. Their eyes met and each man nodded slightly in agreement. Together they pulled themselves out of the booth and approached the source of the noise. 

Steve inserted himself into the middle of the confrontation without so much as a glance backwards. Joe sighed, finding it remarkable how quickly his desire for Steve was tempered by exasperation. They flashed their badges and were greeted with a chorus of shouted taunts from the diner's patrons. 

Steve cast a hard glare in each of their directions. "Can we help you, gentlemen?"

"Yeah, you can help," the older man seethed. "This little prick owes me four grand."

"Better take it outside," Joe warned. He kept his eye on the kid, who was a blank slate compared to his shaking, enraged friend. 

"No way in hell. This is it, this is the time and the place we agreed on. World's gonna end tomorrow! And this scum can't cough it up..." The gnarled man shook his head, admonishing. He reached for something inside his denim jacket. Joe and Steve crowded him in, prepared to deprive him of whatever he was reaching for. Behind them the topknot made his escape, a gust of wind from the door alerting the biker of his departure.

Steve blocked the man's way to the exit, steely confidence vibrating in his thin frame as he spoke. "World's gonna end tomorrow, then what difference does it make, man?" 

"Fuckin' pigs," he muttered, famous last words before he pulled out the springer.

The knife was surreal. Dull and unimpressive in the bleak fluorescent light. He swung, aiming at Steve's gut. Steve managed to bow away from the blade and Joe surged into the attacker from behind. Before he could drive the older man into the floor there was a struggle. Restrained in a deathgrip at his forearms the biker flailed in drug-addled shock for a moment before collecting his strength and slamming the back of his skull into Joe's frontal lobe. The force of the blunt damage affected them both. Joe struggled to hold on to the stinking, furious creature. At last there was the clatter of the switchblade as it fell to the tiles below. _Why is there blood...?_

Steve swept in before things got out of control. Joe, vision fraying at the edges already, stepped back and watched his partner knee the biker in the stomach. The punch he threw cracked the man's jaw, effectively overthrowing him enough to push him face-down on the ground. Steve, with the agility of someone half his age, pounced down and proceeded to lay on top of the assailant to keep him still. Joe stepped on the man's uncovered left shoulder blade, pressing his weight down for further security. 

Joe groaned in relief at the sight of a pair of black and whites swinging up to the curb outside. 

The arrest passed in dull chaos. Joe held back from the activity; seated on the edge of an abandoned table. He braced himself from succumbing to his headache and collapsing into a pile on the floor. Steve stood a few feet away with a young, unfamiliar officer, laughing darkly as the biker was dragged away. 

Joe didn't like the way Steve was holding his jacket closed with his hand pressing on his center. In spite of his obvious injury, the man continued to talk in easy cadence. Joe wondered if this is what Steve sounded like when he flirted. _They make a good couple._ He closed his eyes against the image, convinced himself not to faint.

"Gotta say I'm a little embarrassed, officer. You guys got here before shit really hit the fan." Steve used his height, his controlled stance, to disguise the slight twinge of pain on his stomach.

They laughed again. The cop seemed reluctant to return to the van. "You sure you're alright?" She asked, incredulous. "And Detective Bourquin?"

"Well, _I'm_ peachy. And Joe... Joe?" Steve looked over her shoulder at his partner.

Joe was alarmed to suddenly be included in the conversation. "I'm fine," he called out. He breathed and concentrated on standing up to demonstrate how fine he was.

"Hmm... Keep an eye on each other, regardless," she smiled when her gaze returned to Steve. "I'm a certified first responder... So if, you know, it turns out you're _not_ fine, you could give me a call?" 

"Oh," Steve winced around a cough before he understood. " _Oh_. Sure. That would be nice."

The radio on her belt chirped and in a rush she scribbled down her number on a napkin to hand to the detective. "Enjoy your evening, you two. Try to stay outta trouble." The officer tilted her hat in a charming flourish as she exited the diner.

Steve considered the item for a moment before sliding it into his pocket. He looked up as Joe approached, white-knuckling the folder with Dreiberg's article tight against his side. "When's the last time a woman gave you her number?"

When Joe lumbered out the door without comment, Steve followed. "She has a point y'know. Christ, Joe, I hope you're not concussed. My place is just around the corner, you just need to sit down for a while." They blinked and stumbled like a pair of drunks. Steve gripped Joe's shoulder to orient himself, steering them through the lit street. Their work was done for the night.


	7. Chapter 7

A red door was their destination. Red, yet scratched and peeling like pages in a book to reveal garish turquoise paint underneath. The distressed wood creaked as Steve jimmied the lock in a practiced maneuver, then proceeded to barrel into the panel with all his wiry strength behind his shoulder. It opened with a stubborn rattle. Steve turned to his silent companion and discerned the darkly amused expression painting his round face. _Concussed my ass_. He flipped the single light switch; it cast a hollow pallidity on everything.

Joe considered his partner silhouetted in the doorway, a tall dark shape against the illuminated clutter beyond. He looked away with a cough when Steve turned around.

"Get in here, Bourquin, before my hospitality runs out."

Joe balked as a firm hand made itself at home between his shoulder blades and proceeded to hustle him through the apartment. A neglected kitchen whirred past his right, papers tacked on the wall wrinkling in their wake. A few feet further he was guided towards an armchair with laundry draped across the seat. Steve moved forward and discarded the slacks (clean, Joe inhaled a whiff of detergent as they flew past) carelessly to the floor.

"Sit," Steve motioned to the chair. "I'll get some water."

And so he sat. With only a secure approximate 30 seconds to investigate with Steve out of the room Joe attempted to survey the space with one long, searching look. His starting point was the weathered doorway, where dozens of names and addresses were scribbled and crossed out on the wall in graphite. Underneath there was more laundry, dark socks rolled together on the hardwood floor. They led like a trail of breadcrumbs to an empty fireplace. Inside was a gutted TV set, screen smashed to reveal the the dusty mechanical innards within. Joe speculated over this detail before he regarded the pile of newspapers right beside him, stacked so high they reached the arm of the chair. In the center, hiding a headline about the Raiders winning the Superbowl, was an ashtray. It was handmade by the looks of it. He turned the curious crumbling ceramic object around in his hands. Joe raised it above his eye-line cautiously to avoid spilling the ashes cradled inside. Just as he suspected: _S.F. '55_ etched on the bottom, marring the glossy green paint.

Joe didn't know whether he should feel embarrassed about this unexpected sentimental detail of his partner's makeup, or follow the instinct to pocket the item and cherish it, regardless of how obvious the theft would be.

Steve entered the room stripped to his shirtsleeves, gripping a mug and a mason jar both sloshing full with water. "Ya nosy bastard." Joe didn't look up from the ugly green thing until Steve stepped forward and pulled it from his paws, trading him for the jar of water.

"You smoked when you were 13?" Joe asked, then gulped the water down despite his lack of thirst. He treated it like real nourishment, convincing himself he could feel every metallic swallow fill his empty stomach, and even, he delirously fancied, his empty heart. 

Steve relocated the ashtray to the mantle, out of Joe's reach, and pulled out a cigarette he'd had tucked behind his ear. "Good guess. You're off by a few years. Made this in summer camp for my father. Real testament to my fine talent that the piece of crap hasn't broken or jumped outta window yet. Of course I can't say the same for my old man." Steve took a long drag as unpleasant memories floated in the crisp, unheated air of his apartment. He noticed Joe's gaze fall on his own stomach, which throbbed hot as he tried to distract himself with nicotine.

"You're bleeding, Steve. You're still bleeding." Joe murmured, fixated on the growing stain that decorated the bottom half of his friend's gray cotton shirt. He crossed the room in another instant, inches away before Steve could make any space between them.

"Am I? Funny, didn't even notice..."

"Don't be an idiot, take the goddamn shirt off."

Steve's sarcasm drained into bewilderment as he found himself following Joe's orders. He began to work on the buttons, then gave up when his partner huffed in irritation. Joe effectively took over the task, and Steve couldn't help but gasp out startled laughter as those dark-knuckled hands ripped open the rest of the shirt, splitting him down the middle. Joe rucked up the sanguine-matted undershirt and Steve screwed his mouth shut as his bare stomach was touched, fingers pressing slightly around the shallow slice marring his abdomen, a few inches away from his belly button. Steve averted his eyes from the crown of Joe's head and concentrated on his abandoned cigarette balanced on the edge of the malformed ashtray. 

Joe crouched further into the ground, floorboards creaking and mind buzzing as red and smooth, soft white consumed his vision. He might have heard his name but he couldn't delineate it from the droning in his head. Steve was trembling, stoically gripping the mantle behind him as the minute stretched. Joe spread his fingers further; his thick pinkie strayed to Steve's navel, up the wispy trail of hair until it met the blood-soaked shirt stretched across his ribs. 

When he heard his name again, Joe fell back. Without looking up from the nothingness he stared into he cleared his throat and spoke, miraculously with an even tone. "My hands, I should wash them if I'm going to help you out."

Panicked, Steve pulled his shirttails together. He gaped at Joe on his floor, a shriveled imitation of the man from seconds earlier. "It's fine, the cut ain't too bad, I'll just, I'll just take care of it myself, man."

Joe nodded quickly. He stood and brushed his knees off. "You'll be okay?"

Steve closed his eyes and nodded. Joe slipped out quietly. The cigarette was burned to the filter when Steve brought it to his lips again.

It was ill-advised to take the subway home, something Joe realized as he disembarked the stinking, loud car. He paced himself on the stairs leading to street-level so he wouldn't be winded at the top, dizzy enough from his headache and dangerous thoughts about Steve. To distract himself from the tactile memory of Steve's vulnerable flesh he pictured his partner's reaction. Steve, alone and nursing his wound, possibly, _definitely_ thinking about Joe and plotting how to arrange with Harper never to work with the pervert again. _I've punched and molested the guy within days, I deserve to be turned out._ Maybe he'd find someone higher up, try to get Joe fired with harassment charges.

Joe shook his head in denial as he unlocked his own door. Even his vivid imagination could barely harbor such a cruel version of Steve. _A jerk sometimes, sure, but he'd never ruin my life. Hell, I've done a good job of that on my own._ Under the bright lighting fixture in his bathroom, Joe studied his transgressive hands, traces of Steve's blood on the tips of his fingers and along the inside of his right wrist. He ran the tap hot, plunged his hands under to destroy the evidence.

In a bathroom across town Steve struggled to keep the limited amount of butterfly bandages he'd scrounged from the medicine cabinet stuck to his stomach. Every time he bent or started to walk they'd peel off uselessly, limp and irritating against his sensitized skin. Steve cried out when several more fell off and kicked the nearest wall. Confused arousal coiled within his core, returning to him again and again in waves while he failed to cover the minor cut. He kicked out once more, then slumped against the tiled wall in defeat.

He changed tactics and made the wall into his ally, pressing his body against the cold surface as if it would offer some abstract release. 

How could it be? _Joe..._ Every logical neuron rallied against the implications of Joe's lingering touch, his abrupt withdrawal like he'd been _found out_ , when all along it was Steve who had the secret. It didn't make sense. 

Steve pulled away once he realized he was practically writhing against the wall like an adolescent, powerless to alienating hormonal urges. He ran to the kitchen and pulled his jacket off the counter, digging in each pocket for the cop's number. _Why?_ He asked himself. "Why?" Again, aloud. _Because I'm horny, she was actually interested, and I'm a man, and I deserve to fuck a woman._

Clutching the napkin in one hand he stormed through the tiny apartment until he found the trimline. He sat on the ground, lit a new cigarette, and began to dial. He hung the receiver up before punching the final digit. 

It wasn't until he repeated the pattern for the fifth time that he wrote the venture off as pointless. 

Despite all of the prejudices and self-made lies tearing at Steve, building up inside him and spurning his own desires, the fact persisted that Joe was the only person to be trusted in a deceitful world. The only person Steve really enjoyed the company of, or placed any value in. To marry their work, their friendship with something more... was _ideal._

Steve broke the ashtray. Once he killed his pack of cigarettes it seemed fitting, to swipe the thing off the mantle and watch it shatter into a hundred pieces.


End file.
